The Project Gutenberg EBook of Within the Gates, by Elizabeth Stuart Phelps This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license Title: Within the Gates Author: Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Release Date: December 23, 2016 [EBook #53794] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WITHIN THE GATES *** Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images available at The Internet Archive) Book's cover FICTION AND BIOGRAPHY By Elizabeth Stuart Phelps (MRS. WARD) ——— THE GATES . 16mo, $1.50. BEYOND THE . 16mo, $1.25. THE GATES . 16mo, $1.25. WITHIN THE . A Drama. 12mo, $1.25. MEN, WOMEN, AND GHOSTS. Stories. 16mo, $1.50. HEDGED . 16mo, $1.50. THE SILENT . 16mo, $1.50. THE STORY OF . 16mo, $1.50. SEALED . 16mo, $1.50. FRIENDS: A Duet. 16mo, $1.25; paper, 50 cents. DOCTOR . 16mo, $1.25. AN OLD . 16mo, $1.25. THE MASTER OF THE . Collaborated with Herbert D. Ward. 16mo, $1.25; paper, 50 cents. COME FORTH! Collaborated with Herbert D. Ward. 16mo, $1.25; paper, 50 cents. FOURTEEN TO . Short Stories. 16mo, $1.25. DONALD . 16mo, $1.25. A SINGULAR . 16mo, $1.25. THE SUPPLY AT SAINT . Illustrated. Square 12mo, $1.00. THE MADONNA OF THE . Illustrated. Square 12mo, boards, 75 cents. JACK THE . Illustrated. Square 12mo, boards, 50 cents. THE SUCCESSORS OF MARY THE . Illustrated. 12mo, $1.50. LOVELINESS: A Story. Illustrated. Square 12mo, $1.00. CHAPTERS FROM A . Illustrated. 12mo, $1.50. THE STORY OF JESUS . Illustrated. Crown 8vo, $2.00. The Same. Popular Edition. Illustrated. 16mo, $1.25. HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO. Boston and New York WITHIN THE GATES BY ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS BOSTON AND NEW YORK HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY The Riverside Press, Cambridge 1901 COPYRIGHT, 1900, BY ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS WARD ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ACT I. ACT II. ACT III. This drama has so departed from the plan of the original story, “The Gates Between,” published by me long ago, that it is, in fact, a new work, and has therefore received a new title.—E. S. P. W. DRAMATIS PERSONÆ. Doctor Esmerald Thorne, a city physician. Helen Thorne, his wife. Laddie, their child. (Between four and five years of age.) Mrs. Fayth, a patient of the Doctor’s, and a friend of Mrs. Thorne’s, an invalid. Doctor Gazell, a hospital physician not in harmony with Dr. Thorne. Dr. Carver, a young surgeon. Maggie, a maid. A Priest, Nurses, Patients, Servants, People in the Street, Spirits, the Angel Azrael. WITHIN THE GATES ACT I., SCENE I. A library in a city house. A dining-room opens beyond a portière. The dinner-table is set. The library is furnished in red leather and dark wood. Books run to the ceiling. The carpet is indeterminate in tone. The heavy curtains are of a rich, dark crimson. A window is to be seen. The {1} library is littered a little with the signs of feminine occupation. At one of the tables sits Mrs. Thorne. She is a young and beautiful woman, of stately presence and modest, high-bred manner. She is well-dressed—but not over-dressed—in a tea-gown such as a lady might wear in her own home when guests are not expected. The dress is cream-white; it falls open over a crimson skirt. The lamps are shaded with lace of red or of white. One with a white shade is on the table by which she sits. Her sewing materials are lying about, among books and magazines half-cut. She tries to sew upon a little boy’s lace collar, but throws her work down restlessly. Her face wears a troubled expression. (She rises and crosses the room nervously; goes to the window, and stands between the long lace curtains, looking out. She consults her watch; speaks.) Mrs. Thorne. It is not so very late! Hardly past six o’clock yet. What can be the matter with me? I must not become a worrier. A doctor’s wife can never afford to be that. Enter Maggie. Maggie. Shall I serve dinner, ma’am? Mrs. Thorne. The Doctor has not come, Maggie. We must wait—Jane will be careful not to burn the soup. (Rises and looks again restlessly out of the window; calls:) Maggie! Maggie. Ma’am? Mrs. Thorne. When you went up to light the Doctor’s candles, how did Laddie seem? Did Molly say? Maggie. Just the same, she said. He does seem sort of miser’ble. [Exit Maggie. Mrs. Thorne. (takes up a magazine and tries, in vain, to read; sighs, and lays it down; takes up the little lace collar and tries to sew; lays that down; rises). I’ll run up again and look at the child for myself. Enter Maggie. Maggie. Mrs. Fayth, ma’am. Enter Mrs. Fayth (pale, sweet-faced, delicate, with the languorous step of the half- cured invalid. She is in carriage dress, with a long, dove-colored opera cape—rich, but plain in design. She throws off the cape at once). [Exit Maggie. Mrs. Thorne (warmly embracing her friend). Why, Mary Fayth! You? At this time of night! Mrs. Fayth. Yes. I—Mary Fayth—isn’t it wonderful? I haven’t been out after sundown before for six years.... Is the Doctor in? Mrs. Thorne. He hasn’t come yet. I am waiting for him. We never can tell. Mrs. Fayth. Doesn’t the dinner get cold? Mrs. Thorne. The dinner is subject to chronic bronchitis and acute pneumonia. Mrs. Fayth. (laughs merrily). Acute pneu-mo-nia is good.... You were always clever. Mrs. Thorne. But I don’t fret. A doctor’s wife can never do that.... Give me your cape, dear. You’ll wait for him. Mrs. Fayth. I did want to surprise him. He would be so pleased. My husband calls me Doctor Thorne’s miracle. But never mind. I can’t wait for him. I’m on my way to the Hospital Fair.... Think of that! I’m to be let stay till half-past eight o’clock. Fred is to meet me there, and we’re to dine at the café with the crowd and see the tableaux.... Think of it!—like common, vulgar, healthy people. Isn’t it wonderful? To be half alive! I have been half dead so long! Kiss me, Helen. Mrs. Thorne. (anxiously). I hope you won’t pay for it to-morrow, dear. (Kisses her affectionately.) Mrs. Fayth (cheerily). Oh, I expect to be flat to-morrow. But it’s worth it—to go somewhere with one’s husband ... after six years. I’m going to the Fifteen Cent Museum next —when I get a little farther along—some big, noisy, healthy, shabby place. Fred has promised to take me. He dotes on the gorillas.... Well, I only ran in. The horses are getting cold. I must go. Give my love to the Doctor—Helen! I’m going to church when I get well. I want to hear the Te Deum.... It’s a good while since I did that. They won’t let me. They put it off till the last. Fred said I must begin with the Hospital Fair and work up through the gorillas to re-li-gious dis-si-pa-tion. The Doctor says I’m to get well in a sci-en-ti-fic manner; on the Law of Ev-o-lution. Poor dear Doctor! He doesn’t care about the Te Deum.—Helen, I wish your husband believed. He is so good—so kind. He ought to be a re-li-gious man. Mrs. Thorne (sadly, with almost imperceptible bitterness). He is a doctor. Mrs. Fayth. He is so great, you see. He is almighty to so many miserable people.... I can {2} {3} {4} {5} {6} understand that. His mind stops there. He is so strong, so powerful; he works the miracles himself. Mrs. Thorne. My husband has no time to study these questions, Mary. All his life is given up to science, you know. I thought—when we were first married—I could influence him in these ways. But a doctor’s wife learns better than that. Mrs. Fayth. What he needs is to be half-dead. Then he would have to believe. He is too much alive, poor Doctor.... It is such a joy to be alive, Helen! I thought I must run in and tell you. Mrs. Thorne (smiling affectionately). I’ll tell him to be sure and see you to-morrow. You’ll need it. Mrs. Fayth. Well, Fred can tel-e-phone. I dare say I shall be sick enough. Good-by, dear—Helen? What ails you? You don’t look right to-night. Mrs. Thorne (arousing). Laddie doesn’t seem well at all. I can’t make Esmerald believe that anything ails him. But that’s the way, you know.... I am not allowed to be anxious. The mother of a doctor’s child can never be that. Mrs. Fayth (with quick sympathy). Oh, I am so sorry! I know just how you feel— Mrs. Thorne. You never had a child, Mary. Mrs. Fayth. But sick people understand everything. Oh, we know! Mrs. Thorne. Yes. I suppose you have so much time to think. Mrs. Fayth. We have so much time to feel. (Rises to leave.) (Mrs. Thorne puts the opera cape over her friend’s shoulders.) Mrs. Fayth (abruptly). Helen, I was thinking to-day about Cleo. I don’t often. Mrs. Thorne (pityingly). Poor girl! I do, very often. She must have led a cruel life with her husband. And she was so young when he died! She really hated him—I think as much after he was dead as when he was alive. Mrs. Fayth. She did not hate yours. Mrs. Thorne (gravely). She was a patient. I have nothing to say. Mrs. Fayth. But of course she hardly made a secret of it, that she loved the Doctor—half wrongly, half rightly. Mrs. Thorne. Like the woman she was—half fiend, half angel— Mrs. Fayth (interrupting). There are people who still talk about her; they are equally divided whether she died of love or morphine. It is said she had the opium habit. It is three years ago to-day that she killed herself. Mrs. Thorne. I had forgotten.... Poor Cleo! Mrs. Fayth. I’ve been thinking about her all day—I don’t know why. She never liked me very well—perhaps because I didn’t love the Doctor; and so he could do so much more for me. You know how those things go.... And you never gave her the satisfaction of one hour’s jealousy? Mrs. Thorne (peacefully). How could I? I never had the materials.... But, as you say, these things are complicated. We never know where the end of the skein is. Mrs. Fayth. I will send over to-morrow and see how Laddie is. Good-night—good- night. Mrs. Thorne (kisses her warmly). I wish you would stay—I wish you need not go. Don’t go! Mary—don’t go! [Exit Mrs. Fayth (slowly, with a sweet, mysterious smile). (Mrs. Thorne relapses into her anxious attitude and manner. Moves to the window, and looks out again, between the curtains. While she stands there with her back to the door, suddenly and noisily striding in.) Enter Dr. Thorne. Dr. Thorne (at once). Isn’t dinner ready? Mrs. Thorne (turning delightedly). Oh! At last! Dr. Thorne. Well. You might have met me, then. Mrs. Thorne. Why, I have been watching for you—and listening—till I’m half blind and deaf. I have been to the window— Dr. Thorne. Don’t complain. I hate a complaining woman. Mrs. Thorne (has advanced towards him, and impulsively put up her arms! Drops them at this and turns sadly). I did not know I was complaining, Esmerald. Dr. Thorne. Most people don’t know when they are disagreeable. (He does not offer to kiss her; pulls off his overcoat nervously.) Isn’t dinner ready? I am starved out. {7} {8} {9} {10} (Maggie is seen in the dining-room hastily serving dinner.) Mrs. Thorne (ringing). Maggie had orders to put it on as soon as she heard your wheels.... Yes. There! You poor, hungry fellow! Enter Maggie. Maggie. Dinner is served, Mrs. Thorne. Dr. Thorne. I must run up and change my coat, first—no, I won’t. I haven’t time. I am driven to death. Come along, Helen. (Strides out before her; then recalls himself from his discourtesy, and steps back. Dr. Thorne is a tall, well-built, handsome man, of distinguished bearing, but with a slight limp; his face is disfigured by a frown, as he looks at his wife. He repeats) I am driven to death! I haven’t time to call my soul my own. Mrs. Thorne (archly). I thought you hadn’t any soul, dear. Or I thought you thought you hadn’t. Dr. Thorne (crossly). Soul? Rubbish! It is more than I can do to manage bodies. Soul? Stuff! What have you got for dinner? (They seat themselves at the table.) Mrs. Thorne. You poor boy! You poor, tired, hungry fellow! I hope the dinner will please you? (Timidly.) Dr. Thorne (testily). Really, I hadn’t time to come at all. I’ve got to go again in ten minutes. But I supposed you would worry if I didn’t show myself. It’s a foolish waste of time. I wish I hadn’t come. Mrs. Thorne (speaking in a low, controlled, articulate voice). You need not. On my account. You need never come again. Dr. Thorne (irritably). It is easier to come than to know you sit here making yourself miserable because I don’t. Mrs. Thorne (gently). Have I ever fretted you about coming, Esmerald? I did not know it. Dr. Thorne. It would be easier if you did fret. I’d rather you’d say a thing than look it. Any man would.... This soup is burned! Mrs. Thorne. Too bad! I gave special orders to Jane—that is really too bad. Let me send it away. Dr. Thorne (excitedly). No, I’ve got to get down something. Bring on the rest—if there is anything fit to eat. I’m due at the Hospital in twenty-two minutes. Gazell is behaving like the devil. If I’m not to handle him, nobody can. The whole staff is afraid of him—everybody but me. We sha’n’t get the new ward built these two years if he carries the day to-night. I’ve got a consultation at Decker’s. The old lady is dying. It’s no use dragging a tired man out there; I can’t do her any good. But they will have it. I’m at the beck and call of every whim. I wish I’d had time to change my boots! My feet are wet. My head aches horribly. I had an enormous office—sixty people; forty here—twenty down-town—besides my calls. I’ve seen eighty sick people to-day. I was a fool to agree to that noon office hour.—I’ve lost ten thousand dollars in this panic. Brake telephoned me to get down to Stock Street to save what I could. I couldn’t get off.... I lost a patient this morning—that little girl at the Harrohart’s. She was a poor little scrofulous thing, but they are terribly cut up about it.—I wish you’d had a good, clear soup. I hate these opaque things. Mrs. Thorne. But last time we had consommé, you said— Dr. Thorne. I said! I said! Who cares what he says? Mrs. Thorne (in a low voice). That seems to be quite true. Dr. Thorne. What did you say? Do speak louder. I hate to hear women mumble their words.—I hope you have some roast beef; better than the last. You mustn’t let Parsnip cheat you. Quail? There’s no nourishment in quail for a man in my state— (Pushes away his plate crossly.) Well, I suppose I’ve got to eat something. I was a fool not to dine at the club.— The gas leaks. Can’t you have it attended to? Pudding? No. I see enough of spoon food in sick rooms. I might have eaten a good, hearty pie. Mrs. Thorne. But the last pie we had, you said— Dr. Thorne (again). I said! I said! What does it signify what a man says? How many times must I say that? Hurry up the coffee. I must swallow it, and go. I’ve got more than ten men could do. Mrs. Thorne (gently, but with perceptible dignity). It seems to be more than one woman can do— Dr. Thorne. What’s that? Do speak so I can hear you.—If you’re going to speak at all. Mrs. Thorne. I said it seems to be more than one woman can do to rest you. Dr. Thorne (carelessly). Do ring for a decent cup of coffee. I can’t drink this. {11} {12} {13} {14} {15} {16} Mrs. Thorne. Esmerald— Dr. Thorne (crossly). Oh, what? I can’t stop to talk. There! I’ve burned my tongue now. If there’s anything I can’t stand, it’s going to a consultation with a burned tongue. Mrs. Thorne (tenderly). How tired you are, Esmerald! It even gets into your poor foot. —You limp more to-night. I was only going to say that I am sorry. I can’t let you go without saying that. Dr. Thorne (rising, and walking irritably through the rooms). I can’t see that that helps it any. I am so tired I don’t want to be touched. (Mrs. Thorne brings his overcoat. He repulses her.) Never mind my coat. I’ll put it on myself. Tell Joe—No. I left the horse standing; I don’t want Joe. I suppose Donna is uneasy by this time. She won’t stand at night —She’s got to. I’ll get that whim out of her.—Now don’t look that way! The horse is safe enough. Mrs. Thorne. I haven’t bothered you about the horse, have I? But I don’t feel—quite— easy. She is such a nervous creature, and so— Dr. Thorne (imperiously). Don’t you suppose I know how to drive? You’re always having opinions of your own against mine. There! I must be off.—Where’s the boy, Helen? Where’s Laddie? Mrs. Thorne (gently). Laddie isn’t just right, somehow, Esmerald. I hated to bother you, for you never think it’s anything. Molly is with him. I’ve been a little troubled about him. He has cried all the afternoon. Dr. Thorne. He cries because you coddle him! It is all nonsense, Helen. Nothing ails the child. I won’t encourage this sort of thing. I’ll see him when I come home. I can’t possibly wait—I am driven to death—for every little whim. (Rushes towards the door, but pauses, irresolute.) I suppose I shall have to go up—if you’ve got this fixed idea in your head. I’ll take a look at him on the way out. Mrs. Thorne (more gently; without reproach, but regarding him steadily ). Good-by, Esmerald. Dr. Thorne. Oh, bother!—I can’t stop for fooling, now. Mrs. Thorne (with sudden change of manner, breaks down, and hides her face in her arms. She weeps quietly). He has always kissed me good-by—before—ever since we have been married. He never, never missed before! Re-enter Dr. Thorne. (He holds the child in his arms, and strides in impetuously, still limping; lays Laddie, wrapped in a silk robe, upon the sofa. Tries to make the child sit up; but the little fellow languidly falls back upon the pillows.) (Mrs. Thorne moves quickly over, and supports the child.) Dr. Thorne. Helen, I must have an end to this nonsense! Nothing ails Laddie. He is only a trifle feverish, with a little toothache—possibly there’s a slight cold. The child should be out of the nursery. He will sleep better for the change. Let him stay awhile—and don’t make a fool of yourself over him. It really is very unpleasant to me that you make such a fuss every time he is ailing. If you had married a green grocer, it might have been pardonable. Pray remember that you have married a physician who understands his business, and do leave me to manage it.... There! (Consults his watch.) I’m eight minutes behindhand already, all for this senseless anxiety of yours. It’s a pity you can’t trust me, like other men’s wives. I wish I had married a woman with a little wifely spirit ... or else not married at all. [Exit Dr. Thorne. (He does not bid his wife good-by. At the threshold of the door he seems to hesitate, makes as if he would turn back, but goes out.) Mrs. Thorne. Oh-h-h me! (Utters one long, low cry; she does not speak any words. She releases her hold of Laddie, who drops back sleepily upon the sofa pillow. She seems to forget the child. She stands still, in the middle of the library, with her face towards the window; her hands are crossed before her, and clenched tightly together. A solemn expression grows upon her face. Her tears dry upon her cheeks. Her eyes widen and darken. Her mouth quivers pitifully. Still she does not speak. She moves slowly to the window, and draws the curtains back. She stands there looking out; she shades her eyes with her hand. The hand trembles.) The Child (cries). Mamma! Mamma! Mrs. Thorne (does not respond to the child. She moans). Esmerald!—Es—mer—ald! {17} {18} {19} {20} {21} End of Scene I. SCENE II. A dwelling street in the city, seen in an almost deserted condition. The time is early evening. The wreck of a buggy lies crushed against a curbstone; the traces are broken, the horse having released herself and disappeared. The wreck lies in shadow, and the prostrate form of a man is but dimly discerned. After a few moments of suspense and silence, slowly crawling to his feet, Arises Dr. Thorne. (He is dressed for driving, as when he left home; his overcoat disarranged, muddy, and torn; his hat gone; his face has a singular pallor, and his whole appearance is agitated. As he rises, he throws a carriage robe back over the spot where he had been lying. He speaks.) Dr. Thorne. That dastardly brute has done it, now! I’ll sell Donna for this.—It will play the mischief with that old injury. I shall exchange an interesting limp for crutches, now.—Hil- loa! (Walks to and fro with perfect ease.) The shock has acted like a battery on the nerve centres. Instead of a broken neck I have a cured leg. I’m a lucky fellow—as usual. (Laughs lightly; turns to examine the condition of the ruined buggy; suddenly looks confused, and puts his hand to his head.) Curious cerebral symptoms I have! Queer, there isn’t a crowd round. They must have missed the trail when Donna bolted. She’ll be at the stable by this time.—She won’t go home. Helen won’t know.... I shouldn’t like to be the man that had to tell Helen!... I must get to her—I must get home as soon as I’ve been to the Hospital. I’m afraid I was a little short with Helen. I wish— (Presses both hands to his temples as if to command himself; looks more and more bewildered.) I must have been pretty well stunned—seems to me there was a collision. I ran down somebody. It was a landau—we crashed—I saw it overturn—there were people in it I knew—patients.... Who?... Who? (Stamps the pavement peremptorily, and impatiently strikes his own head.) Who was it? —Horrible! The brain cells do not obey me—me! (Walks about frenziedly.) ... Ach—ch! It is worse to remember than to forget. I have it now—the sweetest woman of them all— Helen’s friend—the gentlest, the most obedient, most trustful, the bravest patient I ever had —Mrs. Fayth. I saw her face as the carriage went over.... She stretched out her hands, and said: “Doctor!” It was Mary Fayth. (His face falls into his hands. For a moment he sinks down on the wreck of the buggy; but springs up.) Now that accounts for it.—The crowd are all there. The accident was so bad nobody has thought of me. She is the victim. I have escaped. Dead or alive, she is done for. She never could recover from a shock like that. I must go and find her. I must find Mrs. Fayth. (Starts and hurriedly walks down the street, peering everywhere.) [Exit Dr. Thorne. (In his absence no person passes the street.) Re-enter Dr. Thorne. Strange! How strange! I cannot find her. I cannot find anything—nor anybody that a man would naturally meet under such circumstances. Not a trace of the accident—yet I’m as sure of it as I am that I’m alive. (Pronounces these words slowly, and paces the sidewalk, irresolute.) It all came from my being overdue at the Hospital. I suppose I did drive Donna pretty fast. I wonder if I struck her? I am always in such an infernal hurry—I never have had time to live. I am driven to death. (He says the last five words, not impatiently, but with a certain solemn deliberation.) I must go at once to Mrs. Fayth’s house. They must have carried Mary there—I wish I could spare time to see Helen!—I’ll go right home as soon as I’ve been to Fayth’s. Odd! How these brain symptoms last. I must have had quite a blow. I don’t—I can’t—it is mortifying to feel so confused. [Exit Dr. Thorne. (In his absence the street remains deserted.) Re-enter Dr. Thorne. Enter behind him a tall Woman. (She is wrapped in a long ash-colored veil, or mantle, beneath which shows a gleaming gown of flame-color. She follows Dr. Thorne silently. She keeps at a distance from him. Her step is a gliding, stealthy one. The Woman does not speak.) Dr. Thorne. There must be serious cerebral congestion. I cannot find the street. I cannot find Fayth’s house. What part of this bewitched town am I in? I have lost my way—I, Esmerald Thorne, with a clientele of twenty years from end to end of the city—I cannot find my way. {22} {23} {24} {25} Enter a Suburban, a Loafer, and a Priest. (The Woman draws her veil, and looks solemnly at Dr. Thorne as she passes. Her face is pale and wretched, but possesses singular beauty.) [Exit the Woman. (Dr. Thorne does not notice the Woman.) (The Loafer leans against a post. He stares stupidly at the wreck.) (The Priest walks slowly, reciting an Ave.) (The Suburban hurries on, making a wide circle to avoid the ruins of the carriage.) Dr. Thorne (addressing the Suburban). Can you tell me?—Here! Hold on a minute! Man, can’t you answer a civil question? Will you tell me— The Suburban (pays no attention to Dr. Thorne, but hurries on. Consults his watch; speaks.) I shall lose my train! [Exit Suburban, running. Dr. Thorne (with puzzled impatience, addressing the Loafer). Here!—You! Why, it’s Jerry! Just tell me, will you, Jerry, where the accident was, and how much was the lady hurt? (The Loafer stares stupidly at Dr. Thorne, but makes no answer.) [Exit Loafer. Dr. Thorne (with trouble on his face, more gently addresses the Priest, whom he slightly touches on the arm). Sir!—Oh, Father Sullivan! Look here, Father! I’m ashamed to confess, I have lost my way. Would you direct me to the house of the well-known merchant, Frederick Fayth? I am due there on an urgent professional errand, and—I cannot explain the phenomenon—but I have lost my way! (The Priest repeats an Ave under his breath. He looks Dr. Thorne full in the face, but does not reply.) Dr. Thorne. And will you be so kind as to tell me whether you have heard of a carriage accident down-town—and how much was the lady hurt? Did you— Priest(looks blindly over Dr. Thorne’s head; mutters). Nay—Nay. I see nothing. (He crosses himself). Ave Sanctissima! Ora pro nobis! (He lifts his arms and, with a troubled and confused expression, makes the sign of the cross in the air over Dr. Thorne. Priest passes on.) Dr. Thorne (gently). Thank you, Father. [Exit Priest. Dr. Thorne (stands sunken in thought for a few moments; suddenly starts and knots his hands together, then separates them with the motion of one blind or of one feeling his way in the dark). I must see Helen! I must go to Helen!—Helen! Helen! (Sudden darkness settles. When it passes, the wreck of the buggy is removed.) Enter Dr. Thorne. (Walks rapidly and perplexedly, still with the manner of a man who has lost his way.) [Exit. Re-enter. [Exit. Re-enter (speaks). I must get home. I will get home. I will see Helen! (Stops sharply, as if smitten by an unseen force; cannot take another step; contends, as if with an invisible power; droops, as if vanquished; turns, and retraces his way; his head hangs to his breast. He speaks.) What thwarts me from my home? Who constrains me from my wife? (Lifts his face angrily to the sky.) Is this hypnotism? (Laughs sarcastically.) Am I an infant—or a maniac? It must be anæsthesia passing off. Perhaps I was etherized by some blank fool after that shock.—The accident! That is it, of course, of course! It is the cerebral concussion—a simple case.... I shouldn’t like this to get out. I believe I’ll go into my office—if I can find my office—and wait till this passes off. It is a perfectly simple case. (Walks feverishly up and down the street, searching for his own office; mutters.) Ever since I yielded to that demand for a noon office hour downtown for business men—it has crowded me without mercy. If they hadn’t been my old patients, I wouldn’t have succumbed to it. It’s just another strand in the whiplash that has driven me to death. Well (draws a long breath)—I seem to be out of sorts to-night. I shall get over all this nonsense when I see Helen. Helen will set me right. Helen will make a live man of me again. {26} {27} {28} {29} {30} End of Scene II. SCENE III. The interior of a down-town office. Dr. Thorne is seen in the consulting room; the door is closed into the reception room. One gas-jet burns over the desk; patient’s chair and physician’s chair are seen in the usual places; the desk is in order for the night; a movable telephone, of the kind in use in offices, stands upon the desk. Dr. Thorne (throws himself heavily into his revolving chair). What the devil am I here for? (Violently. The light grows dim as he says this.) Why in—why in the name of all the laws of Nature cannot I get home? (After a pause, brokenly.) Well—well! It’s something to be here; to get out of the street—in out of the night—it’s a good deal. I’d begun to understand how outcasts feel—felons, apparitions, fugitives. In the name of the laws of mystery, thank Heaven for so much! (The light brightens. It reveals his face, which is haggard and pinched. He pushes his case books about, aimlessly. Suddenly his hand hits the receiver of the telephone. He springs and cries out:) The telephone! The telephone! I must have gone stark mad not to think of it.—See! I’m not a drinking man, am I? (Puts his hand to his head.) No. I do not drink. Helen would not like to have me.—No. And I’ve been all these hours without telephoning to Helen. She’ll think I did it on purpose— poor Helen—because of the words I said. If a man could slay the words he says.... They harry me—like ghosts. (Rings the telephone violently.) Central? 48.4—48.4, I say. Why don’t you give me 48.4? I tell you I’m in a hurry. 48.4! And be quick with it! (Rings again.) Why in—why don’t you attend to your business there? It is Dr. Thorne—Dr. Esmerald Thorne. My errand is most urgent. Give me my home, and make short work of it. 48.4! Do you hear? (Rings again.) (A man’s voice from the Exchange comes faintly over the wire, reverberating through the transmitter, so as to be audible at a distance from the instrument .) Why don’t you speak? We cannot make out a word you say. Dr. Thorne (rings again, wildly). I tell you I want my home—48.4! I must speak to my wife. Give me 48.4—Helen? Helen! Voice from the telephone. Stop ringing your bell if you can’t use your tongue. Put your mouth close to the transmitter. Are you drunk? Or are you dead? Dr. Thorne (still ringing). I will report you for this. It shall cost you your place. 48.4, I say. Give me my house. I will not submit to this. Give me 48.4! (The telephone ceases to reply.) Dr. Thorne (rises, hangs up the receiver, and paces the office tempestuously; speaks). The very forces of Nature are in league against me.... My own nervous system—the night—the atmosphere—electricity—they are all gone foes to me. They are serried like an army between myself and her. Helen will be—Helen will suffer—oh, poor girl! (The telephone call bell rings suddenly.) Dr. Thorne (leaping to the receiver). Who calls? I am here. Who wants Dr. Thorne? (He snatches the receiver greedily to his ear; listens a moment; cries wildly:) Oh, Helen! Is that you, dear? Speak louder, darling.... Yes, I’m here—at my office down-town. I’ll be home soon. Don’t be frightened—but I met with a trifling accident. Helen? Helen! What’s the trouble? Don’t you hear me, Helen? Woman’s voice from the telephone. Is my husband there? Esmerald! Are you there? Dr. Thorne. Why, Helen! Don’t you hear me? What does ail this cursed telephone? Central! Give me a decent wire. My wife can’t hear a word I say.... Helen? I’m not at all hurt —only shaken up a little. I’ll get back just as soon as—Helen? Helen! Woman’s voice from the transmitter. Central? I cannot find my husband at his office. Please give me the Hospital.—I must communicate with my husband. (Voice from the transmitter dies away.) Dr. Thorne (rings madly). Central, you’ve cut me off! You’ve cut me off from my home. Give me 48.4 again. Helen?—Helen! Can’t you hear me? Don’t you understand me, Helen? Oh, I could hear you—your own dear voice, my girl! I wanted to tell you—I can’t wait till I see you to say—Helen? She does not hear me.—Helen! (The transmitter is silent.) (Dr. Thorne lays the receiver down. He hides his face in his hands.) End of Scene III. SCENE IV. Morning in a business street down-town. Many people are passing, among them the Priest, the Suburban, and the Loafer. A crowd thickens before the bulletin boards of “The Earth,” a {31} {32} {33} {34} {35} prominent daily newspaper. At the extreme left are the headquarters of “The Universe,” a rival paper. Not far from “The Earth” building can be seen the modest sign of the eminent physician:— DR. ESMERALD THORNE. Office Hour 12-1 o’clock. (A door opens within. Dr. Thorne appears in the entrance to the corridor.) Enter Dr. Thorne (upon the sidewalk. Standing irresolute, he seems to wince from the daylight and the morning air; he mutters). Now it is light, I can find my way to Helen. (Steps slowly along the sidewalk; shades his eyes from the sun. He wears no hat, and his pallor has increased. No person addresses him.) (On the bulletin boards of “The Earth” can be seen the following announcement: War with the Island of Borneo. Borneo Lays Down Her Ultimatum. The President has Called for Volunteers. Panic in Stock Street. Santa Ma Fallen 30 Points Since Yesterday. Dissension at the City Hospital. Rumors of Accident at the West End.) Enter Dr. Gazell (a short, blond, thick-set, suave man of middle age) and Dr. Carver (a very young man; the latter reading a fresh copy of “The Universe”). Dr. Gazell (with emotion). Shocking! Shocking! I cannot express—I am overcome! Dr. Carver (without emotion). Yes. It is very sad. You’ll be apt to find these things in “The Universe” before “The Earth” gets them. I wonder if he— Dr. Gazell. No. Never. He was above reproach. A hard man to get along with—willful, but above reproach. I am greatly shocked! Dr. Thorne (stepping out into the crowd). Ah, Gazell! Good-morning. I am—I am very glad to see you, Dr. Gazell (pathetically). (Dr. Gazell continues reading his paper. He does not look up.) Dr. Thorne (with embarrassment). Gazell! (He moves directly in front of the office of “The Earth.” At that moment a new bulletin flashes in large letters, over the heads of the crowd, these words:— Rumor Confirmed. Shocking Accident! Terrible Tragedy. Runaway at the West End. Mrs. Frederick Fayth Dangerously Hurt. The Eminent and Popular Physician, Dr. Esmerald Thorne, Killed Instantly.) (Dr. Thorne reads, and reels; stares about him appealingly.) (Murmurs are heard from the crowd.) Enter two Office Girls. (First Office Girl starts, and points to the bulletin.) Second Office Girl. Oh! Oh! (She bursts into tears.) Suburban. Too bad! He was a clever fellow. He saved my little boy’s life last summer. Loafer. He took a t’orn out av me eye onct and divil a cint did he charrge for ’t. Priest. Pater Noster in Cœlo—gone without absolution, poor soul! An attractive heretic —merciful to the poor of my parish. Dr. Gazell. He drove too fast a horse. And he drove the horse too fast. I always told him so. But I am greatly agitated by this! Dr. Carver (reading aloud). Now “The Universe” had it already in type: “Dr. Thorne was dragged for some distance before the horse broke free. He was found near the buggy, which was a wreck. The robe was over him, and his face was hidden. Life was extinct when he was discovered, which was not for an unaccountably long time. His watch had stopped at five minutes past seven o’clock. He was not immediately identified. By some unpardonable blunder the body of the distinguished and favorite physician was taken to the morgue.” {36} {37} {38} {39} Dr. Gazell. That accounts for it. Dr. Carver (reads on). “It was not until nearly midnight that the mistake was discovered. A message was dispatched to the elegant residence of the popular doctor. Mrs. Thorne is a young and beautiful woman, on whom, with their only child, an infant son, this blow falls with uncommon cruelty.” Dr. Thorne (utters a long, heartrending moan. But no person hears the sound. He stretches out his hands. The crowd shrinks from but does not see him. Staring at the bulletin, he stands apart. He raises his clenched right hand in the air; speaks). It is a dastardly lie! It is one of those cursed canards manufactured to harass men—and—break the hearts of women. God!—She has seen it by this time. Let me pass! Let me go to her! You may kill her with this, but you can’t kill me. Gentlemen, make way for me! I am Dr. Thorne! (The crowd pays no attention to this outcry.) Enter Newsboy (shrilly piping). Newsboy. “Earth!” “Universe!” Latest—8.30. All about the accident! Dr. Thorne killed instantly—Mrs. Fayth still breathin’—“Earth,” sir? Two cents, sir. (Dr. Thorne clutches the newsboy by the arm, and would tear the paper from him. Dr. Thorne’s fingers grope over it—touch it. He tries several times to obtain it. The paper remains in the hands of the boy.) Enter Brake, the broker. (Dr. Thorne staggers against Brake, who is reading “The Universe.”) [Exit the Suburban, consulting his watch. Dr. Thorne (more gently; addresses the loafer). Jerry! Is that you, Jerry! Tell these gentlemen, will you, that I am Dr. Thorne? I should take it—kindly—of you, Jerry. Loafer (stares; mutters). Divil a cint did he charrge me for ’t. Dr. Thorne (addresses the broker). Oh, Brake! I am glad to see you! I couldn’t get down to save my Santa Ma. But that is of no consequence.... I’ve been hurt—an accident— and I am confused. I am suffering from hallucinations. They have got beyond my control. I wonder if you wouldn’t call a cab for me? I thought Dr. Gazell would take me home in his carriage,—but he didn’t seem to hear me when I spoke to him. If you’ll call a cab, I’ll get home—to my wife. [Exeunt Dr. Gazell, Dr. Carver, and Brake, without replying. (Dr. Thorne watches them with a piteous expression; stands back and apart from the crowd.) End of Act I. ACT II. SCENE I. A small ward—the women’s ward—in a hospital; several cots with patients in them are visible. One patient is in a wheeled chair. Screens stand by the cots. There are plants, pictures, the cheerful features of the modern hospital. Two nurses are seen busy with patients. Enter Dr. Gazell and Dr. Carver. Dr. Gazell (seats himself by one of the patients; speaks blandly). And how do we find ourselves to-day? Patient (turning her face, on which can be seen traces of tears). Bad enough—worse. I’ve been so upset by— Dr. Gazell. Yes, yes. I know. It is truly shocking! Dr. Carver (addressing one of the nurses). You become your cap to-day. You have an uncommonly good color—I mean to operate on No. 21. Nurse. Do you really? We thought her improving. She’s nervous to-day—on account of Dr. Thorne. Dr. Carver. Yes. Thorne had things all his own way here, as usual. I mean to operate,—if Dr. Gazell can manage her. Nurse (coquettishly). You are so expert,—such an easy surgeon. You don’t mind it more than a layman would carving a Christmas goo—oose. And what would you operate for —on No. 21? Dr. Carver. Appendicitis, of course. Nurse. Really? You are so clever on diagnosis. Now, I hadn’t thought of appendicitis—in her case. Do you know—I thought it more like pleurisy? Dr. Carver (looks keenly at the nurse to discover if she is making game of him; {40} {41} {42} {43} {44} {45} speaks pompously). The nurse, as you have been taught in your training-school, can have no opinions. Now, the physician— Nurse (demurely). Oh, of course. I wouldn’t have you think I’m presuming to set up mine. She might have measles, or the grippe, for anything I should know. Dr. Carver. Now you speak very properly indeed. Dr. Gazell (at bedside of No. 21). Is the pain more severe on the right? Patient. I didn’t say I had any pain—now. Dr. Gazell (soothingly). Increasing toward night? Paroxysms? Or is it steady? Patient. I said I’d got over the pain. That has all gone. It is the weakness—the deadly weakness. Dr. Gazell. Just so. That weakness is a most significant symptom—I think you said it was accompanied by nausea? Patient. No, I didn’t. Not a bit. Dr. Gazell. Just so. Dr. Carver? Here a moment? (To the patient.) I’m sure we can relieve all that. Just a little operation—a very pretty little operation—would set you right again in a week or two. Dr. Carver (coming to the cotside of No. 21; speaks eagerly). It is such a beautiful operation! Why, I’ve known patients beg for it,—it is so beautiful. Patient (beginning to cry). Dr. Thorne said there was no need of anything of the kind. Dr. Gazell (stiffening). Dr. Thorne was an able man—but eccentric. His professional colleagues did not always agree with him. Enter Dr. Thorne. (He has wasted since his last appearance; looks outcast, wan, and wretched; is splashed with mud; still hatless; stands at the lower end of the ward, gazing blindly about.) Patient No. 21. Dr. Thorne used to say that if we had better doctors, we shouldn’t need so many surgeons. He said the true treatment would prevent half the surgery in the city. (Dr. Thorne starts, and moves towards the patient.) Dr. Gazell (soothingly). Yes. Just so. Dr. Thorne had great confidence in himself. Patient (rousing). No more than his patients had in him. Dr. Carver. Irritable! Very irritable! A significant symptom, Dr. Gazell. In my opinion, this extreme irritability demands an operation for appendicitis. First Nurse (listening, laughs; addresses Second Nurse). Now, if one could only apply that! Take a cross man,—any cross man,—say a brother, or a husband, or even a doctor, and if he carried it too far, just call on Dr. Carver. Why, it would revolutionize society. And he is so expert! He doesn’t mind it any more than carving a goo—oose. Yes, sir! I’m coming. (Demurely obedient; hurries to Dr. Gazell.) (Second Nurse moves to the rear of the ward to a patient behind a screen.) (Dr. Thorne advances slowly; stands in the middle of the ward, unnoticed.) Patient No. 21 (louder). I say, when a man’s dead is the time to speak for him. And I’ll stand up for my dear dead doctor as long as I live. Voice from another cot. And so would I,—and longer, if I got the chance. Another voice. He doesn’t need anybody to stand up for him. His deeds do follow him. And he rests from his labors. (Dr. Thorne smiles bitterly; stands with his face towards the speaker. He knots his hands in front of him, and thus advances with a motion so slow as to be almost stealthy.) Voice from another cot. He wouldn’t care so much for that. It’s Bible. He was not a religious man. But he was as kind to me! (Weeps.) Other voices. And to me! Oh, yes, and to me,—as kind! Patient in the wheeled chair. I couldn’t move in my bed when I came here. I’d been so three years. Look what he’s done for me. (Sobs.) Dr. Thorne (in a low tone). Miss Jessie? Don’t cry so. You’ll make yourself worse. Go back to bed, Jessie, and—see. I’ll tell you a secret. Don’t tell the others just yet. I wasn’t killed, Jessie. That was a newspaper canard. I’m a live man yet. See! Look up, Jessie. Look at me,—can’t you? (Pleads.) Won’t you, Jessie? Patient in the wheeled chair (stares past him at Dr. Gazell and Dr. Carver). And to think of the likes of them,—in his place! What ever’ll become of this hospital without him? {45} {46} {47} {48} {49} Dr. Thorne (with trembling lip). You don’t hear me, do you, Jessie? Well—well. I must have met with some cerebral shock affecting the organs of speech. It is a clear case of aphasia. I can’t make myself understood. It—it’s hard. Jessie? (Louder.) I can’t see things go wrong with you,—no matter how it is with me. You’ve been in that chair long enough for to-day. (Imperiously.) Jessie, go back to bed! Stop crying about me, and go back to your bed. (Jessie wavers; shades her eyes with her hands; stares about her; slowly turns her wheeled chair and moves away.) [Exit Jessie. Dr. Thorne (moves more naturally and rapidly; stands by the cot of No. 21; speaks). Good-morning, Mrs. True. I meant to have seen you last night. I was—unavoidably detained. I hope you’re not worse this morning? Patient (with tears). I’ve cried half the night. Dr. Thorne. That’s a pity. But you won’t cry any more. I’ll take care of you now. Patient (looks up wearily; turns her face on her pillow and sobs). Dr. Thorne. Clearly aphasia. She does not understand a word I say. Dr. Gazell! Gazell! Dr. Carver? (The two physicians murmur together.) Dr. Thorne. Gazell? What’s that? The knife? For Mrs. True? Excuse me, but I cannot permit it. Dr. Carver. It would be such a pretty little operation. The students are getting restless for something. I told them— Dr. Gazell. It is well-defined appendicitis. Dr. Thorne. Well-defined appendi—fiddlesticks! It is nothing but pleurisy. I tell you, Gazell, I will not have it! Dr. Gazell (looks around uncomfortably; speaks with hesitation). Of course, Thorne would not have agreed with us. Dr. Thorne (grips Dr. Gazell by the arm). I tell you it would be butchery, Gazell! What are you thinking of? Gazell! Dr. Gazell. But he was a very opinionated man,—everybody knew that. (Dr. Thorne drops Dr. Gazell’s arm and walks away with a gesture of distress.) Second Nurse (to First Nurse; moves out from behind the screen). Very invigorating day! First Nurse (to Second Nurse). Father Sullivan’s late with the Sacrament. I hope Norah, yonder, won’t get ahead of him. She’s ’most gone. (Approaching the cot of the patient behind the screen.) Second Nurse (moves away). Yes. She’s been unconscious half an hour. Enter Priest. (He advances to offer Extreme Unction to the dying patient.) First Nurse. Lovely morning, Father. Dr. Thorne (standing in the middle of the ward). They used to call my name when I came in. “Oh, there’s the doctor!” “The doctor’s come!” It ran from cot to cot—like light. And everybody used to smile. Seems to me some of them blessed me. Now— (Sobs from the ward.) Dr. Thorne (tremulously). My patients! Isn’t there one of you who knows me? Doesn’t anybody hear me? Don’t cry so! All the symptoms will be worse for it. The dying patient. Doctor? Doctor? Dr. Thorne. That sounds like Norah. Priest (recites behind the screen at Norah’s bedside the prayer for the passing soul). “Proficiscere, anima Christiana, de hoc mundo, in nomine Dei Patris omnipotentis, qui te creavit; in nomine Jesu Christi Filii Dei vivi, qui pro te passus est; in nomine Spiritus Sancti”— Dr. Thorne (softly). Thank you, Father. (Stands silently with bowed head.) Reënter the patient in the wheeled chair. Jessie (happily). I’ve had such a lovely dream! I thought Dr. Thorne was here—in this ward. Oh! (With disappointment.) Dr. Thorne. Jessie! Jessie (sadly). It was such a lovely dream! (Droops and turns away.) (Dr. Thorne walks apart; stands drearily, with downcast eyes.) Enter Mrs. Fayth. (She looks pale and agitated, but quite happy. She is dressed as before, for the street, but {50} {51} {52} {53} {54} her head is bare; is wrapped from head to foot in her long, pale, dove-colored opera cape. She goes straight to Dr. Thorne, and touches him upon the arm; speaks softly.) Mrs. Fayth. Doctor? Dr. Thorne (starts). Oh! Mary Fayth! You? (He grasps her hand with pathetic eagerness.) Oh, I never was so glad! You are the first person—the only one—nobody else seemed to know me. I might have known you would. Where’s Helen? Isn’t she with you? And you weren’t hurt at all, were you? I have been—anxious about you. Those cowardly papers said—I tried to get right over and see you. And, after all, you’re not hurt. I thank— (Looks around confusedly.) Ah, what shall I thank? Priest. Christum Dominum nostrum. Amen. (Dr. Thorne listens with troubled interest, like a child learning a hard lesson.) Mrs. Fayth (smiling). I can only stay a minute. I must get back to my poor Fred. Dr. Thorne. Don’t leave me. Mrs. Fayth. Oh, poor doctor! Don’t you see? The carriage overturned. I was badly hurt. I only died an hour ago. Dr. Thorne (gasps, and stares at Mrs. Fayth. He tries to speak, but can only articulate). You died an hour ago? And I? And I? Mrs. Fayth (still smiling, with her sweet, mysterious smile). Don’t take it so hard, doctor. I came to ex-plain it to you. Why, it’s the most beautiful thing in the world! (Glides away slowly, but smiling to the last.) Dr. Thorne (throws up his arms in anguish). I am dead! My God! I am a dead man! (His face falls into his hands, his whole body collapses slowly, he drops.) End of Scene I. SCENE II. It is night on a street in the West End of the city. At the right stands a church, dimly lighted for a choir to practice. An anthem on the organ can be heard. At the left appears Dr. Thorne’s house, viewed from the outside. It has high stone steps, and lights are in the window. One window on the ground floor has the curtain raised. The interior of the library can be seen through the window,—glimpses of the books, the pictures, the table, the lamp with the white lace shade. The room is empty. Into it— Enter Mrs. Thorne. (She is dressed in deep black. Her face is drawn with grief. Her hands are clasped in front of her. She paces the room drearily. She is alone. She seats herself by the table; tries to read; lays the book down, and rises; paces the room.) [Exit Mrs. Thorne. Enter Dr. Thorne at the far end of the street near the church. (He is dressed as before. He is still pale. His manner has increased in agitation, but a new resolution gives more firmness to his wasted countenance. He speaks, meditatively.) Dr. Thorne. After all, there is another life. I really did not think it. (Stops and passes his hand over his eyes; muses.) God knows—if there is a God—how it is with me. If I have never done anything, or been anything, or felt anything that was fit to last, I have loved one woman, and her only—and thought high thoughts for her, and felt great emotions for her, and I could forget myself for her sake—and I would have had joy to suffer for her, and I’ve been a better man for love of her. And I have loved her,—oh, I have so loved her that ten thousand deaths could not murder that living love! (Falters.) And I spoke to her—I...